“If any man of you moves, the Bishop of Valencia is dead,” he growled.
Cesare made an abortive struggle to free himself, but was helpless against William’s desperate strength.
“You are mad,” Alexander gasped. “For this you will burn forever in the lowest pit of hell.”
“No doubt I will have there a great deal of company,” William snarled, pushing the helpless Cesare towards the door. The other men in the room remained spellbound, as if watching a huge snake in their midst.
All except Djem — who suddenly gave a heartrending scream and fell forward across his plate.
“He has begun his journey,” William said grimly, and tightened his grip so that Cesare gasped in pain. Some of the guests rose to their feet.
“The Bishop and I intend to make a small journey, too,” he said. “You can all continue with your merrymaking. And be sure that no one leaves this room for two hours — otherwise the Bishop will surely die. Tell them so, Holy Father.”
Alexander seemed to have difficulty in speaking, but at last he urged them in a hoarse voice, “Stay here. Stay here!”
“You will burn,” Cesare snarled. “You will burn!” But he had no intention of burning himself.
Hawkwood closed the doors of the dining chamber behind them, and escorted Cesare through the antechamber, walking arm in arm, with his dagger pressed into the Bishop’s side, concealed by the lavish folds of his sleeve. As William was known to be a friend of the Pope, and a frequent visitor, no guard questioned them as together they left the Vatican and stole into Rome itself.
It was late at night and there were few passers-by. Soon they were at William’s lodgings, where Aimée and Hussain stared at Cesare Borgia in consternation.
“My God!” Aimée gasped. “What have you done?”
William kept his dagger at Cesare’s throat while the last of their belongings were packed up.
“You will not kill me,” the young Bishop begged. “I have kept my part of the bargain.” His terror was almost amusing.
“You may thoroughly deserve death, my lord,” William told him. “But I need you to see us past the guard. This house is the first place your father will look.”
“For that reason, I should remain,” Hussain declared. “If the house is barricaded and defended, the Pope must assume his son is still within, and his people will consume valuable hours trying to gain entry. Hours in which you will be spending on your way.”
“And when they gain entry they will kill you, old friend,” William said. “I cannot permit that.”
“With respect, young Hawk, I am not your servant. I am the servant of Hawk Pasha, sent to watch over you. I will have served him well if, in dying, I return his youngest son to him.”
They gazed at each other, and William heard Aimée catch her breath.
“So go now, young Hawk. But speak of me to my master, and tell him I have served him dutifully. Go!”
*
There was no way he would be gainsaid. William understood the reasoning behind his decision: for his charge to be killed would bring eternal shame upon not only Hussain but on all his descendants. That was not something this servant could afford to risk.
Thus, much as he was tempted to stay and fight at Hussain’s side, or at least take all the Borgias with him to hell, William rode out of Rome around three in the morning, accompanied only by Cesare, Aimée and her terrified maid. They were again unchecked by the guards as soon as the Bishop showed his face, and William kept them on the go until mid-morning. By then there was little advantage in retaining the Borgia, who could well prove a liability at the next town they entered, so Cesare was forced to dismount, and left to walk.
“I swear by God that you will suffer for this, Hawkwood.”
“I have no doubt of it, but at least I shall be alive,” William told him. “And you will have company for your walk.” He made the maidservant climb down as well. She could most certainly prove a liability, as her loyalty was suspect, and now he gained two extra horses.
He turned to Aimée. “Now let us make haste.”
*
Once they were safely across the Apennines, a week later, William altered his direction, as he had always intended to do. Instead of Venice, the natural refuge, he headed for Ravenna. This meant they remained in Papal territory, but his sole object was to board a boat at the earliest possible opportunity, and cross the Adriatic.
It took them two weeks to reach Ravenna, which was a good deal quicker than the earlier journey down. And William now knew where the hidden dangers lay for he remembered where there were likely to be ambuscades, and the signs that indicated banditti. As for the towns, he still possessed not only his passports but a safe conduct signed by Alexander himself some while ago. It was only necessary to change their horses occasionally, giving the reason that he was on an urgent mission for the Pope himself. He preferred that they should sleep in the solitude of an empty hillside or a forest, wrapped in their cloaks and ready at any moment to spring into the saddle.
His only concern was for Aimée, but if from time to time she was obviously exhausted, she kept up the pace very well. There was little opportunity for discussing what had happened, but after her initial dismay she had made no more demur.
At least they were two against the world, and now that her hair was starting to grow again she would soon be as beautiful as ever before.
For himself he still could not quite come to terms with what had happened. He had always recognised that Rodrigo Borgia was an irreligious man, but it horrified him that a man who had shown him such generosity and benevolence should decide to be rid of him forever just because he was of no more use to him. And that such a man was now the spiritual head of all Christendom!
His mind was bent entirely upon escape: to be captured by the Borgias did not bear consideration. He wasted no time in Ravenna, knowing all the while that he could be no more than a day ahead of the Papal pursuers. They went straight to the harbour and he hired a small boat to carry Aimée and himself across the Adriatic. He still retained a large proportion of his satchel-full of coin, but his forbidding figure and drawn scimitar discouraged others from any thought of murder, rape or robbery.
Fortunately the weather was good, and two days after leaving port they came to a Venetian town on the Dalmatian coast. There they purchased horses and headed out into the Turkish-ruled hinterland. Within a few hours, they were surrounded by a patrol of sipahis, and they were safe.
*
There was still a considerable journey ahead of them before reaching Constantinople, but now they could take time and draw breath.
William felt more optimistic once again: his mission had in every way been completed. But there remained the question of his relations with Aimée. He had kept to his vow not to attempt sexual relations with her until invited, but the necessary intimacy into which they had been thrown by their circumstances had been a joy. He had done a good deal of thinking about her as they had galloped through Italy. Her demeanour had altered since the night they had ridden out of Rome, and she remained deeply shocked by revelations of the true nature of the Borgian papacy. Her faith was shaken: all the tenets in which she had been educated torn asunder. But she also clearly understood that her husband, however much she might regret her forced marriage, was now the only friend she possessed in the world.
It was upon that friendship that he conceived her love for him might grow. It was on that friendship — however much the temptations of the flesh rose within him every time he looked at her — that he based all his hopes for their future.
Thus he acted more as a brother than a husband during their journey through the mountains. He showed her the important sights on their journey and explained their history; he introduced her to Muslim customs and Muslim food. He bought for her haiks and yashmaks, and taught her how to conceal herself.
She obviously found it all very interesting, and exciting.
“You do not have to wear the yashmak inside ou
r house, or even in public, unless you wish to,” he told her. “We Hawkwoods maintain some pretence of still being Franks. We do not, for instance, maintain a harem.”
“Would it not be better to do so?” Aimée asked. “Believe me, my lord, I can see the desire in your eyes every time you look at me. It grieves me to see you so beset.”
“And can you never hope to gratify that desire, my dearest? That way lies the greatest happiness you can imagine.”
She sighed and looked away. “I do not know. I do not know what is right and what is wrong any longer. I had conceived myself married to Christ, and was content in that role. Now…”
“Christ will surely forgive you, Aimée. As He must know all things, He will also know that you were forced into what you did, and will forgive you that. But, of all things, I am sure He most abhors a wasted life. You are now a married woman, and you must remain one. Not to share in the joys of marriage, not to bear children to worship His name, will surely be a greater sin in His eyes than any you may have been forced to in the past. And surely God’s judgement is based upon our acceptance of the cards we have been dealt in life, and our determination to do the best with them, for ourselves and for mankind?”
Aimée considered what he had said with her usual seriousness, and at last replied. “I have no doubt there is much in what you say, my lord. I can but ask you to give me time. I am sensible of your regard for me, and I have always held you in the highest esteem. There is no man in the world with whom I could live save you, and I am aware that there is no man in the world could have treated me with such gallantry. If you would allow me but a few weeks more to compose myself, and come to terms with this upheaval in my affairs…”
He squeezed her hand. “Gladly, my dearest. My only wish is for your happiness. You will have all the time you wish.”
He knew he was going to win when, only two weeks later, they arrived in Constantinople.
*
A messenger had been sent ahead to inform the Sultan of their approach. At Adrianople they were met by his brother John Hawkwood and his new wife.
William was considerably astonished at this. John, like himself, had been married to a Turkish girl while still a teenager, and had had several children by her.
But this woman, in her middle twenties, was no Turk. She was fairly tall, and olive-skinned, with boldly handsome features and a mane of tawny hair, which was her most attractive feature after her eyes, which were deep green and sensuous.
She wore the yashmak, but like Aimée removed it when the four of them were alone together.
“Her name is Giovanna,” John informed his brother.
“Italian?” William cried. “But how is that?”
Giovanna blushed. “The ship on which I was travelling was seized by Turkish corsairs. I was fortunate in being a virgin and, instead of being raped, I was confined and sold in the market place of Constantinople. There I was again fortunate, in that your brother saw me and bought me, instead of some Turkish pasha.” She gave a little shiver. “He bought me as a slave, but made me his wife.”
Both William and Aimée stared at her. So much was concealed beneath that simple explanation: the terrors of a pirate attack; the horror of being at the mercy of grasping fingers during the examination which had established her virginity; the misery of captivity; the shame and apprehension of standing on a public block to be examined for defects, not knowing which of the leering men around her would carry her off to a life of secluded slavery.
She could not have known what sort of a man John Hawkwood would prove to be. She could not have gone to his bed any more willingly than Aimée. She too must have wept and thought herself the most forlorn of women. Yet now she sat at his side with pride and dignity. Here surely was a lesson for Aimée.
But there was more. Giovanna was already the proud mother of a little boy, hardly a year old, whom they had named Harry.
Their conversation turned to recent news.
“You should know that Prince Djem is dead,” William began.
“This we have heard. He choked on a fruit pip at dinner with the Pope.”
“He was poisoned by that same Pope. But…you already knew of his death?”
“Oh, indeed. Pope Alexander has sent to the Porte, demanding your head.”
“And Bayazid’s response?”
“He has made no response at all, since he had learned by then of your approach. He wishes to hear your account.”
‘But I am on trial?” William said, wondering if it would be better to flee while he had the chance. But flee where?
“Not necessarily. This Sultan of ours is a strange fellow, much given to moods. But he is even more given to debauchery, and spends more time in his harem than ever in his council. He leaves the management of his kingdom to his viziers and pashas. And of all the pashas, none is so great at present as Hawk Pasha. In that lies your safety. Our father has long been urging your recall, and there is much hostility still towards Rome. Your brush with the Pope may cause some amusement.”
“And Father is well?” William inquired.
“You’d not believe he is past sixty,” John told him. “I swear he could outride even you. But let us make haste now. Both he and the Padishah await you.”
*
That night Aimée asked William to stay with her.
“Perhaps I understand more now than I did,” she said. “Your sister-in-law is a woman of marvellous courage. I doubt I could have survived what she did.”
“You do not lack courage, Aimée,” he assured her.
“It is impossible to know until the moment of test. But I do now believe what you say, that when Fate deals us a hand we must play it to our best ability. You were chosen as my husband many years ago. I have always respected you. Now I would learn to love you.”
Here was happiness. And more. Because, as he had suspected almost from their first meeting, Aimée was possessed of an earthy interest in all matters sexual which made her even more exciting than Margherita. He wanted to sing as they rode along the valley, and first saw the battlements of Constantinople in the distance. He wanted Aimée to be as proud of the life she would lead there as he was of her love.
Certainly there was much to admire in the first sight of the great walls rising sixty feet out of the plain, and the watch-towers rising higher yet, in the myriad banners which drifted in the breeze, in the obsequiousness of the soldiers who came out to greet the sons of Hawk Pasha.
The outer city could not match Rome or Paris for beauty of architecture, since too much of it bore witness to the sack of 1453, but it was a good deal cleaner and better ordered than any Western city, and the crowds who gathered to watch the arrival of the cavalcade were better behaved than any European rabble.
He knew she would be entranced by old Byzantium, now known as Seraglio Point, and by the new palaces, the lovely gardens, the bustling population in the heart of this huge empire.
Just as he knew she must be impressed by the splendour of the Ottoman court. For all the fine clothes and elaborate manners of the French aristocracy, Paris had been a mean and dirty place, blighted by the parsimoniousness of its King, and more often than not shrouded in grey rain. Though the sun had shone in Rome, there the accent had been on crumbling decay.
The Hawkwood brothers were clearly expected. A regiment of red-and-blue-clad Janissaries was drawn up outside the palace, their white horsehair plumes fluttering in the breeze. Two squadrons of blue-and-white-uniformed sipahis were sitting motionless on their horses, also as still as ebony statues.
Heavily veiled, Aimée was led into the palace courtyard between bowing major-domos, and beheld there white-clad imams and muftis, those — a surprising number — who claimed descent from the Prophet wearing green turbans.
She gazed at marble walls and floors, stared at the eunuchs, craned her neck at the high ceilings and at drapes fluttering in the breeze which rippled in from the Bosphorus, and she instinctively clutched for the hand of Giovanna walking beside her.<
br />
She had not truly understood that her husband moved in such exalted society.
Aimée and Giovanna remained in the outer court while John escorted William inside the Porte itself, where Bayazid waited, together with his sons. There were three of these, all grown to manhood: Corcud, only a few years younger than William himself; then Ahmed; and the youngest, Selim, in his mid-thirties.
But William had no eyes for the princes, because, standing behind the Sultan and amid his viziers, was Hawk Pasha himself.
William bowed and made the obeisance: a quick movement of the hand from chest to mouth to forehead. Suddenly he felt somewhat uneasy. The Sultan had clearly put on much weight, and from a flabby countenance his eyes glittered like a snake’s.
“You have been absent many years, young Hawk,” Bayazid observed.
“Too many, O Padishah. I was but endeavouring to carry out your wishes.”
“Did my wishes include the death of my brother?”
“That was my original mission, Padishah. But on receipt of your last instructions, I abandoned my quest. The Pope, however, had already decided on the prince’s death.”
“You have no proof of what you say.”
William looked him in the eye. “I am the son of Hawk Pasha, sire. And I do not lie.”
“Ha!” Bayazid commented. “If your crimes are forgiven, it is only because this Pope has shown himself no friend of mine.”
William bowed, feeling the tension melt away.
“But tell me this,” Bayazid went on. “Did my instructions permit you to marry while on your mission?”
“In that I disobeyed you, Padishah. But my wife is a woman of wondrous beauty and intelligence. Were you to see her you would understand my failing.”
“Then I would see her,” Bayazid said. “I would look upon her face.”
William stiffened again and looked at his father.
Hawk Pasha was frowning deeply.
“How can this be, sire?”
“Is the woman not a gaiour? Does she not go uncovered? Bring her before me.”
Ottoman Page 31